Bad Dreams and Broken Hearts
by Refur
Summary: General seaQuest ficlets
1. Fred Jones, Part II

_seaQuest_ does not belong to me. Nor does "Fred Jones Part II". I am making no money from this story.

So here's the thing: I put my Ben Folds/Ben Folds Five collection on shuffle and challenged myself to write a ficlet inspired by each song that came up, in the sequence in which they appeared. I chose Ben Folds because a lot of the songs tell stories, rather than just being about love or whatever. This is the first in the series. Each time, I plan to put a verse from the song at the beginning of the fic, and the whole song for reference at the end. Hope you like!

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Fred Jones, Part II

_Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark,  
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall,  
He has cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes,  
Things that remind him life has been good.  
25 years he's worked at the paper  
Now a man's here to take him downstairs;  
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,  
It's time._

Crocker stared at the bare wall of his apartment and sighed. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his hands over his face. This was his life now. Everything he had, everything he was, was contained in this room.

He stood and went to the window, looking out over the courtyard of the apartment building. Behind him, the TV played silently, cursing him with its flickering light. He didn't want to look at it. Not now. He wasn't ready.

Down below, two children were playing on a patch of faded grass. One looked up and caught Crocker's eye, waving happily. Hesitantly, Crocker raised his hand in reply, before realising that the kid was waving at someone on the balcony next to his window. His fingers curled shut again.

The sea had been his life. That was what he'd said to Bridger. The sea had been his family, his future and his past, almost as long as he could remember. Deep down, he had always assumed that one day it would be his death, too. But he hadn't died; he had merely grown old, and been moved along so that the younger and more arrogant could take his place. More than forty years of service, and here he was, in a tiny apartment, empty but for a few sticks of furniture and the damn TV, too far from the sea to smell the salt or hear the seagulls. If the sea had been his life, then his life was over.

Leaning his head against the cool glass of the window, he fought the self-pitying lump that rose in his throat. _This isn't going to do anyone any good_, he thought. _Least of all you_. _You're going to have to look at it eventually. Or would you rather let them go without saying goodbye?_

Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath and turned to look at the television. There she was, in all her glory: _seaQuest_ mark II. It had been more than a year since the World Power disaster that had failed to take his life; to Crocker, it seemed like yesterday. All the days in between had faded in his memory to a grey blur of mediocrity.

He stepped closer to the screen, squinting to make out the figures. There had been a marching band, and speeches; he supposed he should count himself lucky that he didn't have to listen to any of that. But now the crew were going aboard: there was Ford, tall and ramrod-straight, his expression a mask of military professionalism. There was O'Neill, looking slightly embarrassed at the cameras and ducking into the shuttle. Ortiz, giving the ladies a broad grin. Lucas, looking cocky and self-satisfied. And then Bridger stepped up to the shuttle and turned, looking straight at the camera with a serious expression, and nodded, as though he knew, somehow, that his old friend was there. Crocker found himself standing to attention, and stood easy only when Bridger had stepped into the shuttle and the doors were closed.

He watched as the _seaQuest_ submerged, reaching out and touching the screen with his fingertips as the immense expanse of dull grey metal disappeared under the glittering blue surface of the water. He felt his heart wrench within him, as if small pieces were being torn away, one by one. When it was finally gone, he stepped back and switched the television off.

"Well, Cap," he said quietly, "looks like you're going to have to do without me this time."

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_Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark,  
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall,  
He has cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes,  
Things that remind him life has been good.  
25 years he's worked at the paper  
Now a man's here to take him downstairs;  
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,  
It's time._

_There was no party, there were no songs  
Cos today's just a day like the day that he started.  
No-one is left here who knows his first name,  
And life barrels on like a runaway train  
Where the passengers change, they don't change anything,  
You get off, someone else can get on.  
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,  
It's time._

_Streetlights shine through the shades,  
Casting lines on the floor  
And lines on his face,  
He reflects on the day._

_Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement  
Projecting some slides onto a plane;  
White canvas and traces,  
It fills in the spaces,  
He turns off the slides  
And it doesn't look right.  
Yeah and all of these bastards who've taken his place,  
He's forgotten but not yet gone.  
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones,  
It's time._


	2. Narcolepsy

Disclaimer: see chapter 1.

Thanks to pari106, Diena, dolphinology, dreamofshadows, Yury, sara and Saturniia for their kind reviews.

Diena: Anytime, darlin'! smooches

dolphinology: Yeah, I heard about Royce. It's pretty sad.

sara: Sorry, m'dear. Um, you might find this one kinda depressing too. prepares band-aids and antiseptic

Saturniia: Who'd have known I'd get so much love for writing about loveable old Crocker? I'll have to try that trick out more often ;). And yeah, Crocker is a total dude imho, and sadly neglected...

No new chapter of Cabin Fever tomorrow, I'm afraid -- sickness and exams are not conducive to writing. But I'll do my best to put you all out of your misery by next Thursday ;).

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Narcolepsy

_I should warn you, I go to sleep.  
I know you don't know what I mean  
Yet;  
I get upset or happy,  
I go to sleep.  
Nothing hurts when  
I go to sleep.  
But I'm not tired,  
I'm not tired._

Krieg drifted awake and lay for a moment, eyes still closed, enjoying the softness and warmth of the bed. It wasn't often he escaped from his navy-issue narrow bunk with its navy-issue pocket-handkerchief-sized blanket and its navy-issue wooden mattress. For that matter, it wasn't often that he got to sleep with a definitely not navy-issue beautiful woman, either. He smiled at the thought, and rolled over, stretching his arm out to the other side of the bed. It was cold.

He sat up. "Katie?" he called through to the next room. There was no answer. "Huh," Krieg said, and clambered out of bed, grimacing as his bare feet hit the cold floor. He made his way into the front room and looked around, sniffing the air hopefully for the smell of coffee. Nothing. Something was nagging at the corner of his brain, but it was too early in the morning for him to concentrate on it. Instead, he made his way through to the kitchen and put the coffee on, wondering if Katie had had to get up early for work or something. He didn't remember her saying anything about it; but then, she was always complaining that he didn't listen.

The nagging feeling was growing stronger, and he stopped as the coffee began to percolate, trying to remember what it was. It couldn't be that important, or he would have remembered it by now. Suddenly aware of the fact that his feet were turning into blocks of ice, he headed back through to the bedroom to get some socks.

It was when he opened the closet door that it suddenly hit him what it was. He stood there, staring at the half-empty hanging space where Katie's clothes had been just the day before, and heard her voice in his head: _Ben, we have to talk_.

Blinking, he opened the drawer where she kept her underwear. It was empty. _Can't it wait till morning?_

He made his way back to the living room in a daze, desperately trying to think of an explanation. On the coffee table was a white envelope with his name written on it in Katie's flowing script. He had no idea how he'd managed to walk past it the first time, sitting there, so innocent and obvious in the centre of the empty wooden table-top. Just looking at it made a sick feeling start to grow in his stomach. _No. We need to talk now._

He picked it up, tearing it with clumsy fingers, and pulled out the small square of paper. Afraid to unfold it, for a moment he simply looked at it, wondering where she had found unlined notepaper. _OK, so talk._

_Dear Ben,_

_ You fell asleep again last night while I was trying to talk to you. I guess I've been trying to talk for a long time, but something always gets in the way. I'm sorry it had to be this way. I wish I could explain my reasons, but I have a feeling that something would distract you. I'll see you around._

_Katie_

Krieg sank down into an overstuffed chair, the note still held in his hand. He stared at it for a long time, then carefully folded it up again and returned it to the envelope, placing it back on the coffee table. There it lay, just a scrap of white paper: a folded square that contained the sum of his failure. He blinked slowly, wondering how he was supposed to feel; sad, or angry perhaps. But all he felt was a wave of numbness as he sat, blankly contemplating the end of his marriage.

He didn't know how long he sat there for, but when he finally looked up the sun was shining through the window, and somehow the sight of the square of light falling brightly on the faded carpet made him feel as though he had been punched repeatedly in the stomach. Shivering, he stumbled to his feet and back into the bedroom. He crawled back under the covers that had long since grown cold, pulling them over his head, and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and carry him away.

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_I should warn you, I go to sleep.  
I know you don't know what I mean  
Yet;  
I get upset or happy,  
I go to sleep.  
Nothing hurts when  
I go to sleep.  
But I'm not tired,  
I'm not tired._

_I know it seems that I don't care,  
But something in me does I swear.  
I don't remember all last year,  
I left you awake to cry the tears  
While I was dreaming in the streams that flow  
Between the shores of joy and sadness,  
I'm drowning, save me, wake me up._

_I should warn you, I go to sleep  
You won't know when I go to sleep  
Cos I'm not tired  
I'm not tired  
I just sleep._


	3. Brick

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

Thanks to Diena and dolphinology for their kind reviews. Also, behold! Another depressing instalment. If you need someone to blame, I suggest Mr. Folds...

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Brick

_They call her name at seven-thirty,  
I pace around the parking lot.  
Then I walk down to buy her flowers,  
And sell some gifts that I got.  
Can't you see  
It's not me you're dying for?  
Now she's feeling more alone  
Than she ever has before.  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere.  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly._

Ford lifted his hand to knock on the door and paused, steeling himself. He tried to remember what it used to feel like, when he waited impatiently for that door to open, his heart beating faster, forcing himself not to grin like an idiot. The feeling wouldn't come though; all there was now was apprehension, and dull misery like a solid lump in his stomach. He knocked.

She had been crying again. He could see it in her puffy face, turned away from him as she opened the door. He wished that she would at least try to act normal, so that people didn't keep asking him what was wrong with her, so that no-one would take one more step and start to suspect the truth; he wished it, and in the same moment he hated himself for wishing it. But then, hating himself was something he'd become pretty good at recently.

She went to sit on the bed, her head still turned carefully away. "What do you want?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

He crossed to the bed and knelt in front of her, trying to catch her eye, but she stared determinedly at the floor, her pretty face tight, wringing her hands over and over. "I want us to talk about this," he said, as gently as he could, not sure if it was true, but sure that it should be. She made no response, but a tear marked a new trail down her cheek. He swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of willpower. This couldn't go on. Something had to break.

"The..." He stopped. He couldn't bring himself to speak the word out loud; to do so would make it real, would make all this more than just a temporary glitch; yet to stay silent would, he was suddenly sure, be the end of it all.

"The baby..." He forced it out at last, then realised he had no idea what to say next; all his energy had been exhausted by the very mention of that word. And Henderson was looking at him now, her eyes bright with tears.

"Don't say that," she said, her voice cracking. "Don't say it. I don't want to talk about it." She was crying properly now, but silently, tears sliding down her face in an endless stream.

Ford scrubbed his hands across his face, feeling the dead weight in his stomach grow heavier by the moment. "I just want everything to be OK," he said helplessly, stretching his hand out towards her. "I just want to help you." It sounded lame, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

She shook her head, her hands cold and unresponsive under his own. "How can it be OK?" she asked. She was looking at him now, and he found himself wishing that she would stare at the floor again. "Do you still think we did the right thing?"

He blinked. What could he say to that? He didn't even know the answer. He rose slowly, and hugged her, feeling her slight form shuddering against him as she cried. But there was no connection between her grief and his, and he felt suddenly as though he were embracing a stranger.

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_Six a.m., day after Christmas,  
I throw some clothes on in the dark.  
The smell of cold, car seat is freezing,  
The world is sleeping I am  
Numb._

_Up the stairs to her apartment,  
She is balled up on the couch.  
Her mom and dad went down to Charlotte;  
They're not home to find us out.  
And we drive  
Now that I have found someone  
I'm feeling more alone  
Than I ever have before.  
_

_She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere.  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly._

_They call her name at seven-thirty,  
I pace around the parking lot.  
Then I walk down to buy her flowers,  
And sell some gifts that I got.  
Can't you see  
It's not me you're dying for?  
Now she's feeling more alone  
Than she ever has before._

_She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere.  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly._

_As weeks went by it showed that she was not fine.  
They told me "Son, it's time to tell the truth", and  
She broke down, and I broke down  
Cause I was tired of lying._

_Driving back to her apartment,  
For the moment we're alone.  
And she's alone, and I'm alone,  
And now I know it..._

_She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly  
Off the coast and I'm heading nowhere.  
She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly._


	4. Still Fighting It

Disclaimer: see chapter 1.

Thanks to Mariel3, dreamofshadows, Nina-Maree, dolphinology, Yury (x2), pari106, Teresa and Diena for their kind reviews.

This one's set a fair long while after the end of season 3.

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Still Fighting It

_Good morning son, I am a bird  
Wearing a brown polyester shirt.  
You want a coke?  
Maybe some fries?  
The roast beef combo's only nine ninety-five.  
It's OK,  
You don't have to pay,_

_I've got all the change.  
Everybody knows  
It hurts to grow up,  
And everybody does,  
So weird to be back here.  
Let me tell you what,  
The years go on and  
We're still fighting,  
And we're still fighting it.  
And you're so much like me  
I'm sorry._

_The formica was peeling from one corner of the table, and Tony picked at it listlessly. He was aware of his dad watching him from the other side of the booth, but he didn't look up. He heard the squeaking of the fake red leather seats as his dad shifted uncomfortably._

_"How's school?"_

_Tony shrugged. "It's school." He wasn't interested in talking about it. Nothing interesting ever happened there, and he wasn't about to tell his dad he hadn't been for a week._

_"Your mother says you've been cutting class."_

_Tony looked up, meeting the older man's eyes. "It's boring."_

_His father smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "That's what I told your mother," he said, with almost childish glee. "I never used to go to class when I was your age either, and it never did me any harm. Don't let her get on your case about it, OK? I know how she nags."_

_Tony nodded woodenly. "OK Dad." But inside he swore to himself that next week he would go to school._

"Dad? Earth to Dad?"

Piccolo jerked back to the present, the smell of grease and plastic upholstery still in his nostrils. Mark was staring at him, one eyebrow raised, lip curled in a faintly sarcastic way. Piccolo shifted uncomfortably on the expensive leather seat.

"Sorry kid, I was miles away. What did you ask me?"

Mark shook his head. "It doesn't matter now," he said, in that exasperated tone that only teenagers can truly manage. Piccolo stared at him, seeing himself in every line of his body, in his closed expression and defensive slump. He wanted to reach out and touch the boy, but somehow he didn't. Instead, he opened the menu.

"What are you gonna order?"

Mark looked down at his own menu indifferently. "I don't care. Burger and fries?"

Piccolo frowned, reading the words and taking great care not to move his lips. "I don't think they have that here. This is a classy joint, ya know."

Mark shrugged. "Whatever."

_Tony had never liked the diner his dad always took him to when he visited. He didn't understand why they always had to go to the same one. The waitress was friendly towards him, and especially to his dad, but he didn't like her false smile and the way she smelled of cheap make-up. When he had kids, he decided, he would take them to the best restaurants in town. By that time he would be rich and famous, of course._

Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment against the swirl of memories. They gave their orders to a waitress whose smile didn't reach her eyes, and then he knew it was time to do the dirty deed. "How's school?" he asked, innocently.

Mark shrugged, not looking up from where he was playing with a loose thread on the linen tablecloth. Piccolo waited for a moment, but it was clear that nothing else was forthcoming, so he drew a breath and plunged onwards.

"Your mother says you've been cutting class."

At this, Mark looked up, but his expression was blank. "So?"

Piccolo leaned forward intently. "Listen, Mark, school is real important. Ya gotta go to school."

Mark looked unimpressed. "Why?"

"Cuz you're a smart kid," Piccolo said. "You could go to college one day. Why would you wanna waste that?"

Mark shook his head. "You never went to college," he pointed out.

Piccolo laughed. "Oh, so now ya wanna be like me?"

"What do _you_ care, anyway?" Mark muttered, and Piccolo's grin faded. He stared at the young man sitting opposite him and wondered how on earth they had got to where they were. _You always wanted to say that to him, but you never did. Do you think this is how he felt, too?_

He leaned forward. "Look, kid, of course I care. I'm your father, I care about you. Ya got that?"

Mark met his eyes, but his expression was mutinous. Piccolo frowned. "Ya got that?" he said again, and this time Mark nodded. "OK," Piccolo said. "And you better stop cutting class, too."

_"So, do you have enough money?"_

_Tony wondered why he asked. He never had any money to spare anyway, unless it was to thrust a crumpled twenty into Tony's hand and tell him to spent it on candy. But that wasn't the sort of money they needed. They needed money to pay the phone bill, and to buy him new shoes. But in the end, Tony reflected, even if his dad gave him all the money in the world, nothing would have changed. He knew the visit was nearly over, and he felt the same curious mixture of emotions he did every time. He wanted to leave, to get out into the fresh air and away from this heavy atmosphere of unspoken accusation. And he wanted to stay, he wanted his father to hug him and play baseball with him and be waiting for him when he came home from school. But he knew that would never happen, and so he had to settle for just getting away. And, as always, as he shut the car door and trudged up the drive, he swore to himself that one day he would be the best dad that anyone ever had._

Mark clambered out of the passenger seat and closed the door. Piccolo got out too, stepping around the car, surprised when he noticed how much the boy had grown in the time since his last shore leave. He stepped forward, feeling a sudden urge to hug him tight and tell him how much he loved him; but the words stuck in his throat, and he extended his hand instead. Mark shook it, his face expressionless.

"So, I'll see you next time I get leave, OK?" Piccolo said.

"OK," Mark replied, and turned to trudge up to the house. Piccolo caught sight of Miranda watching out of the window, but she didn't wave. Walking back round to the driver's side, he sat down heavily and covered his face in his hands. _You didn't do it. You didn't keep your promise. _Leaning back in the seat, he adjusted the mirror, and saw his father's face staring back at him.

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_Good morning son, I am a bird  
Wearing a brown polyester shirt.  
You want a coke?  
Maybe some fries?  
The roast beef combo's only nine ninety-five.  
It's OK,  
You don't have to pay,  
I've got all the change.  
_

_Everybody knows  
It hurts to grow up,  
And everybody does,  
So weird to be back here.  
Let me tell you what,  
The years go on and  
We're still fighting,  
And we're still fighting it.  
And you're so much like me  
I'm sorry._

_Good morning son.  
Twenty years from now  
Maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers;  
And I can tell you about today,  
And how I picked you up and everything changed.  
It was pain,  
Sunny days and rain,  
I knew you'd feel the same thing._

_Everybody knows  
It sucks to grow up.  
And everybody does,  
So weird to be back here.  
Let me tell you what,  
The years go on and  
We're still fighting,  
And we're still fighting it.  
I'll try and try,  
And one day you'll fly  
Away from me._

_Good morning son.  
I am a bird._

_It was pain,  
Sunny days and rain,  
I knew you'd feel the same thing._

_Everybody knows  
It hurts to grow up.  
And everybody does,  
So weird to be back here.  
Let me tell you what,  
The years go on and  
We're still fighting,  
And we're still fighting it,  
And we're still fighting,  
And we're still fighting it.  
And you're so much like me,  
I'm sorry._


	5. The Luckiest

Disclaimer and general explanations: see first chapter.

Thanks so much to Mariel3, Yury, Teresa and dolphinology for your kind reviews. I seem to be feeling very creative at the moment, so here's another one of these as well...

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The Luckiest

_I don't get many things right the first time,  
In fact, I am told that a lot.  
Now I know all the wrong turns and stumbles and falls  
Brought me here.  
And where was I before the day  
That I first saw your lovely face?  
Now I see it every day.  
And I know_

_That I am,  
I am,  
I am  
The luckiest._

It was dark when the cab finally pulled up to the front door. Bridger struggled out into the rain, wondering where the fabulous Hawaii weather that everyone always raved about was. Maybe it was only sunny when he was fifty fathoms beneath the ocean.

The cab driver helped him with his bag, although to tell the truth he didn't need it; he wasn't carrying much stuff with him, and he was probably much more equipped to carry it than the overweight driver. He thanked him nonetheless, and tipped him generously, then stood for a moment watching as the cab drove off into the downpour. He felt a strange reluctance to go inside. He knew Carol would be upset that he was so late, even more so when she found out his furlough was going to be shorter than he'd promised. _Again_. He knew it must be lonely for her, to be left literally holding the baby. He wanted to see her, see them both, God, he wanted it, but he wasn't sure he could bear his homecoming to be marred by an argument.

Standing in the rain wasn't going to do him any good though. He was soaked through by now, and his uniform pants were getting heavy. Sighing, he fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and opened the heavy glass door into the lobby. The doorman nodded at him calmly, though he probably looked a fright in his dripping uniform and with his stitched-up cheek. _Honestly, who would join the Navy?_

He licked his lips, tasting salt, and was reminded that he had already been soaked once today, standing on the deck of the ship that had brought them back, he and his close friend Manilow Crocker. _Are you looking forward to seeing your wife, Crocker?_ he had asked, and Crocker had grinned. _Not as much as I'm looking forward to getting back to the sea_, he had laughed, slapping Bridger on the back, and the ship had swayed, a wave of spray drenching the two of them where they stood by the rail. Both had gasped with the shock of the cold water, and then Crocker had wiped his eyes and spread his arms wide. _Nothing can beat this_, he had cried into the stormy wind. _Nothing can beat this!_ And Bridger, feeling the savage joy that the sea always brought to him, had silently agreed. And yet now, here he stood on dry land, in a nondescript lobby.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the hallway that was both familiar and alien, he was mentally prepared for what was to come. It was past midnight, and he hadn't called. He deserved everything that was coming to him. As the key turned in the lock he braced himself and stepped forwards.

Into silence.

He lowered his bag to the ground cautiously, closing the door gently behind him. He was about to call out, but remembered that the baby would be asleep, and so instead he stepped quietly into the living room. Carol was sitting on the sofa, little Robert in her arms; both were fast asleep. The baby had grown so much that Bridger almost didn't recognise him, and he felt a shiver run through his insides. _My son. My family._

Moving as quietly as he could, he crossed the room to sit on the sofa beside his wife. His uniform squelched slightly as he sat down, and Carol shifted and opened her eyes.

"Nathan," she smiled sleepily.

Bridger reached a hand over and brushed a stray hair from her face. "Shhh," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Carol's eyelids fluttered closed, and she changed position so that her head was against Bridger's shoulder. He put his arm round her gently, and she shivered slightly. "You're wet."

Bridger nodded. "It's raining."

But Carol was already asleep once again, snuggled up against him with the baby wrapped protectively in her arms. Bridger folded his own arms around the two of them and sat as still as he could, feeling their warm weight against his chest and the baby's breathing stirring the hairs on the back of his hand. He felt a slow, steady glow spread through his body. It was nothing like the wild euphoria the sea brought to him; he remembered Crocker howling into the storm once more: _Nothing can beat this!_, and he tightened his embrace around his family. "You're wrong, my friend," he murmured. "You are so, so wrong."

_I don't get many things right the first time,  
In fact, I am told that a lot.  
Now I know all the wrong turns and stumbles and falls  
Brought me here.  
And where was I before the day  
That I first saw your lovely face?  
Now I see it every day.  
And I know_

_That I am,  
I am,  
I am  
The luckiest._

_What if I'd been born fifty years before you  
In a house on the street  
Where you lived?  
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike,  
Would I know?  
And in a wide sea of eyes,  
I see one pair that I  
Recognise.  
And I know_

_That I am,  
I am,  
I am  
The luckiest._

_I love you more than I have  
Ever found a way to say  
To you._

_Next door there's an old man  
Who lived to his nineties,  
Then one day passed away  
In his sleep.  
And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days  
And passed away.  
I'm sorry, I know that's a  
Strange way to tell you  
That I know we belong.  
That I know_

_That I am,  
I am,  
I am  
The luckiest._


	6. Smoke

Disclaimer: see first chapter

Many, many thanks to Teresa, Malinear, dolphinology, pari106 and Mariel3 for their kind reviews.

Teresa: wow, I don't think I've ever had my writing compared to a painting before. Thank you so much!

Malinear: Hah, there was me thinking that "The Luckiest" was my least depressing chapter yet! I really must practice my happy face...

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Smoke

_Leaf by leaf and page by page  
Throw this book away.  
All the sadness, all the rage,  
Throw this book away.  
Rip out the binding and tear the glue  
All of the grief we never even knew  
We had it all along  
Now it's  
Smoke._

_The things we've written in it  
Never really happened.  
All the things we've written in it  
Never really happened.  
All of the people come and gone  
Never really lived,  
And all the people come have gone,  
No-one to forgive.  
Smoke._

_We will not write a new one.  
There will not be a new one,  
Another one,  
Another one._

The funeral was held on a sunny day. Of course, it was always sunny in Southern California, where Crocker had retired. That didn't change Lucas' feeling that the weather was deeply inappropriate; a feeling that only deepened when he saw who else was in attendance.

He had known Bridger would be there, of course; Crocker had been one of his oldest friends, and he had far more right to attend the funeral than Lucas himself did. It was still a shock, though, when he saw that familiar face across the cemetery, maybe a little more lined than the last time they had seen each other some five years before, but still unmistakeably him. He looked tired and sad. He looked the way that Lucas felt.

When he looked back on it later, he couldn't remember very much about the funeral itself; it was the wake that stood out in his memory. It was held on the _seaQuest_, as per the request Crocker had made in his will. Lucas tried hard to stay out of the way, standing in a corner with his drink, waiting for the moment that he would be able to escape to his quarters. When the moment finally came, he had almost made it out of the door when he found his way blocked by a familiar figure.

"Captain Bridger," he said, calmly. "It's good to see you again."

"Lucas." Bridger's tone was equally polite, but his smile was sad. For a moment, they simply stood, not looking at each other. Then Lucas opened his mouth to make his excuses, but Bridger beat him to it.

"There have been a lot of changes around here," he said, looking around the room. "I wonder if you'd care to take me on a tour."

Lucas hesitated. Bridger's smile faltered slightly. "Of course, I know you're very busy," he murmured, but Lucas was already shrugging his assent.

"This way," he muttered, and headed off towards the moon pool, not looking to see if Bridger was following behind.

-----

"Dr. Westphalen told me you were thinking of leaving."

Lucas looked up in surprise. It was the first thing Bridger had said since they had started the tour. Not that he was complaining; it was easier just not to talk. "Yeah," he said cautiously. "I've thought about it."

Bridger nodded. "Why?"

Lucas bit his lip, breathing out heavily through his nose. "It's complicated. I really don't want to talk about it." _Not with you_.

Bridger was silent for a moment; the only sound was their footsteps on the metal deck. A crew member passed, saluting the captain. "But it seems like everything's going really well for you here," Bridger started again, and Lucas stopped dead.

"Look," he said sharply, then drew a breath and started again more quietly. "You've got what you wanted. You never wanted me to enlist, and now you've been proved right. I can't handle it. Does that make you happy? Now, if you're done saying 'I told you so', I've got work to do." He turned on his heel, swallowing the lump of anger and tears in his throat, but Bridger grabbed his elbow.

"Wait a minute," he said, and Lucas recognised the tone from a hundred arguments. "This has nothing to do with what I want."

"Really?" Lucas looked back at him, feeling his expression harden. "You could have fooled me." And with that, he stalked off, cursing himself for having agreed to speak to Bridger in the first place.

-----

Somewhat less then an hour later, Lucas was working on the hologram system that had been reprioritised after the war had ended when he suddenly became aware that there was someone in the room. Whirling, he saw Bridger leaning in the doorway.

"The door was open," the older man said calmly.

Lucas pursed his lips. "Come on in," he said, trying to keep the hostility out of his voice. He saw Bridger's eyes stray to the hologram projector, which was currently showing a picture of Audrey Hepburn, a mid-20th-century actress. "I'm still trying to improve it," he said.

Bridger sat down on the bed. "She's pretty," he noted.

Lucas sank into a chair. "Yes," he said, feeling somehow helpless. "She was."

He was aware that Bridger was staring at him, but he didn't feel like meeting his gaze. There was an awkward silence. Then Bridger leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "We need to talk, Lucas. We've needed to talk for a long time."

"No," Lucas broke in sharply. _I do _not _want to have this conversation_. "Maybe we needed to talk once. I think it's gone beyond that now."

He saw Bridger close his eyes, and realised suddenly how old he was looking. The sunlight in the cemetery had been deceptive: in the harsh glare of the ship's lighting he seemed to have aged almost a decade.

"You may be right," Bridger said slowly, and Lucas looked away again. "I've done a lot of things... said a lot of things... that I wish I could take back. But I know I can't."

"What's your point?" Lucas asked, and hated himself suddenly for the brusque tone in his voice.

"My point." Bridger looked exhausted. "My point is that I love you, kiddo. And I can't change the past, but I can change the future. I don't even know why you're not in my life any more. It doesn't make sense."

Lucas closed his eyes, willing himself not to hear the broken tone of the old man's voice. "Are you saying you can just forget everything that's happened? That it's that easy for you?"

"Yes." The answer was so unexpected that Lucas opened his eyes again, to find Bridger looking at him with a pleading expression that he had never seen on the captain's face before. "I don't care who said what and whose fault it was. I just care that I haven't spoken to you for five years. I don't want that to ever happen again."

Lucas looked away, staring at the hologram of the long-dead actress whose brittle beauty was still so enchanting. _Can it really be that simple?_ he wondered, feeling a flare of desperate hope somewhere in his guts. "You're not the same person I thought you were," he said quietly.

"People change, kiddo. God knows, you're not the same kid who gave me lip in the moon pool in 2018." Lucas felt the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. He looked up, and this time he met Bridger's gaze.

"Who _are_ you?" the older man asked, gently, and Lucas felt a lopsided grin form on his face.

"Who are you?" he replied.

Bridger grinned back, and Lucas felt a sudden surge of feelings, stronger than he'd had for a long time. It was as if his teenage self had been revived, with all the strength of emotion that entailed. If someone had asked him that morning whether he wanted to feel like a teenager again, he would have laughed at them; but now it seemed like a veil had been lifted from between himself and his inner life. Even the colours in his quarters seemed clearer and brighter. The problems that had seemed so insurmountable were still there, but somehow they seemed more like challenges than roadblocks now.

He realised he had been staring at Bridger like an idiot, and looked away, embarrassed. Bridger, though, did not seem to have noticed; he was staring like an idiot too. "So, are you going to stay, or what?"

Lucas felt his smile fade. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?" Bridger was warming to the subject now. "Come on, you like it here, don't you? I mean, it _is_ your boat."

A dim memory from the distant past stirred inside Lucas. _But the past isn't what's important_, he reminded himself. _The future is_. _Can it _really_ be that simple?_ But for the life of him, he couldn't think of a reason why not. He was about to reply, but the chimes of the PA system interrupted him.

"Captain, you're wanted on the bridge."

Lucas looked at Bridger, and felt as if a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders. "I think that's me," he said.

_Leaf by leaf and page by page  
Throw this book away.  
All the sadness, all the rage,  
Throw this book away.  
Rip out the binding and tear the glue  
All of the grief we never even knew  
We had it all along  
Now it's  
Smoke._

_The things we've written in it  
Never really happened.  
All the things we've written in it  
Never really happened.  
All of the people come and gone  
Never really lived,  
And all the people come have gone,  
No-one to forgive.  
Smoke._

_We will not write a new one.  
There will not be a new one,  
Another one,_  
_Another one._

_  
Here's an evening dark with shame:  
Throw it on the fire.  
Here's the time I took the blame:  
Throw it on the fire.  
Here is the time that we didn't speak it seems for years and years and  
Here's a secret no-one will ever know  
The reasons for the tears,  
They are  
Smoke._

_We will not write a new one.  
There will not be a new one,  
Another one,  
Another one._

_Where do all the secrets live?  
They travel in the air.  
You can smell them when they burn,  
They travel.  
Those who say the past is not dead can  
Stop and smell the smoke.  
You keep saying the past is not dead, well  
Stop and smell the smoke.  
You keep on saying the past is not even past and  
You keep saying.  
We are  
Smoke,  
Smoke,  
Smoke._


End file.
